Missing Sherlock Holmes
by They Call Me Mrs. Holmes
Summary: A few weeks after the death of Sherlock Holmes, a serial killer starts to attack the London public. But without the help of Sherlock, Lestrade is struggling to solve the case. Not to mention John, who doesn't seem to be coping with the death of his best friend. Please review x
1. Chapter 1

DI Lestrade handed over the money to the barista with a smile and took his cup in return. He exited the small coffee shop and lifted the lid to his cup, blowing the steam off his fresh coffee. He continued to walk down the streets in the direction of Scotland Yard. It was seven o'clock and the streets of London were mildly crowded. Lestrade nodded to one of the officers standing outside the station before entering the building. He was greeted by Sgt Donovan standing at the end of the corridor with her hands on her hips. She did not smile back at the Detective-inspector who followed her down the hallways and into his office.

Lestrade took his seat at his desk and gestured for Donovan to sit down opposite, "What's wrong? There hasn't been another one, has there?"

Donovan slapped a case folder onto her boss's desk and sighed desperately, "This morning. A couple came across the body whilst walking there dog. Forensics are on their way to the scene now."

"Are you sure it's the same as the others?"

"No, but we'll find out when we get to the scene," Donovan shrugged.

Lestrade, who had been flicking through the file, stood up and began to leave. "Let's go then."

Donovan followed him out of the station and into his car in the car park. She sat down in the passenger seat next to him and flicked out her phone. "Should I… let John know?"

The DI shook his head unhappily, "No. He doesn't need this right now. The guy's best friend just threw himself off a building; he needs time to get over it."

_Three bodies in three weeks, this is starting to get out of hand._ Lestrade thought. _If Sherlock was here, he'd go off with John and solve the case within days. Jesus, I need to check on John again and see how he's doing. Maybe I could call him? He may be able to help us…. No. Sherlock only died a couple of weeks ago; I can't do this to him. _

"No," Lestrade continued, "We can do this by ourselves. Things are going to be different now Sherlock isn't here."

* * *

DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan trudged up the muddy pathway leading to the forest. A thin veil of fog hung low in the air, and the leaves crunched crisp under their feet. Off to the right, a group of forensic scientists surrounded a body disguised by the trees.

"Alright? What have we got?" Lestrade greeted the team and stood by Anderson.

"Male, mid-thirties. Been dead for about twelve hours," Anderson replied. "You know, we could try calling Sherlock…"

Both Lestrade and Donovan groaned at the suggestion. "Give it a rest, Anderson. Sherlock's dead, he's not coming back. He won't answer the call." Lestrade shook his head at the poor man's hope.

"But maybe-"

"Anderson!" Donovan snapped. "It's not going to happen."

The forensic scientist shook his head and returned to the corpse. Lestrade and Donovan shared a concerned look for the man and followed him over to the body. The corpse was decorated in leaves and dirt. A large wound was showing on the corpse's chest. Lestrade gestured to the congealed blood. "Stabbed like the others?"

Anderson nodded and put on some latex gloves. He peeled back the shirt plastered to the body to reveal the wound in more detail. "Definitely."

Donovan shook her head and pulled Lestrade away from the scene. "Something's wrong."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "What?"

Donovan glanced around her to make sure no one was listening. "This. This is all wrong. It's definitely the same killer. So what's the connection between the victims? Serial killers escalate, but this one just stays the same. He stabs the victims and then leaves them in places they don't belong. Why?"

Lestrade shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, "I don't know. But I need you to find out everything about the stiff. See if there is any connection between the last ones."

John.

John stared at his reflection in the mirror and picked up his razor. He shaved along his jaw and cheeks, leaving his small moustache that he had elected to grow two weeks ago. He flung some water at his face and dried himself in the towel next to him. Today would be the day that he sorted through Sherlock's belongings. John had been neglecting the task for several weeks now, always coming up with an excuse for him to avoid doing it. But part of him knew that he couldn't continue living like this. He had acquired some boxes that sat in the living room waiting to be filled. John didn't like the thought of removing any of Sherlock's belongings; by keeping them at Baker Street he was keeping a part of him with him.

John trudged down the hallway and back into the room. He glanced around the flat and contemplated where to start. He picked up an empty box and moved over to the desk cluttered with Sherlock's equipment. He picked up the skull that had been living in Baker Street for as long as Sherlock had, and began to toss it into the box before he froze.

"I can't do it," whispered John. He returned the skull to the desk and collapsed into his chair. The man ran a hand through his hair and sighed, shaking his head.

_I can't get rid of Sherlock's stuff, not yet. He'd never forgive me if he found out I donated all his equipment to a charity. _John thought, _they can stay here. Sherlock wouldn't like it if he returned and found the flat empty. No, they'll stay._


	2. Chapter 2

John.

"John!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, arms laden with shopping bags. "Yoo hoo!" she knocked on the door to their living room and beamed at the man sat in the chair. "You're up early."

John grunted in response and stood up to make a cup of tea for the landlady, "I didn't sleep last night. I've been up for hours."

Mrs Hudson dumped the bags onto the cleared table and placed the receipt next to them, "Why not? You know it's not good for you, this. I had a friend whose husband died. She used to sit around the house all day, she didn't get rid of his stuff, she was miserable. Do you know what she did?"

John sighed and poured the hot water into mugs, "Mrs Hudson, I am perfectly fine. And Sherlock was not my husband."

"Well," Mrs Hudson accepted the mug of tea, "Husband, boyfriend, it's the same things isn't it?"

"Mrs Hudson, I am not gay!" John shook his head and returned back to his seat. The woman began to sit into Sherlock's old chair, but decided against it when she saw John's eyes widen. She pulled out the chair tucked underneath the desk and perched on the end of that.

"I thought you were getting rid of Sherlock's stuff?" she blew the steam off her cup.

The man shrugged and avoided her beady-eye glare, "No, I decided not to. Not just yet…"

There was a few minutes of awkward silence shared between the pair as they both sipped at their drinks and looked about the flat. "I was going to go down to the cemetery later on. Do you want to come, dear?"

John shrugged his shoulders, "I was going to see him tomorrow but I don't see why not. What time will you be going?"

"Around five o'clock?" the lady smiled kindly.

John nodded and smiled a small smile back, "Great, thanks."

* * *

Lestrade

Lestrade flicked through the file on his desk tiredly, he still hadn't properly woken up yet and he needed to focus. Donovan knocked on his open door and sat herself down in one of the chairs opposite.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Not a lot. The man didn't have any family, he was a security guard at the museum, he lived about ten minutes from the museum. Nothing interesting, and more importantly- no connections with the other victims." Donovan closed the small notebook she had been reading from and leant back into the chair.

"So nothing?"

"Not really…"

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache appearing. "There must be a reason why he's killing all these people!"

"Well whatever it is we can't find it," she sighed. "He's good. He leaves no fingerprints, no evidence that can be traced."

"Well keep looking!" Lestrade pointed at the woman. "Right now we've got a press conference to attend to."

* * *

"So what you're saying is, we've got a serial killer loose on the streets of London and the police are doing nothing about it?" a blonde woman asked. She held a small notepad in between her hands and a recording device sat on her lap.

Lestrade waved his hands, "No that's not what we're saying. But it does appear that these deaths are linked somehow and the police are doing their very best to catch the killer."

"Somehow? What's the connection between the deaths?" a black man called out from the side. He was another one of the few reporters that were attending the conference.

"Well," Lestrade began slowly. "All of the victims died the same way. They all were found in places they had no reason to be, and a few other details that I can't reveal."

"Victims? So this _is_ the work of a serial killer?" a brunette yelled from the back.

Flashes were going off from a plethora of cameras aimed at the DI's face. He blinked to try and clear the spots that started to swarm his vision. "It appears so. Yes."

More flashes went off, accompanied by the scribbling of notes on paper. "So what can people do to protect themselves?" another reporter asked.

"Well, my advice to the public would be not to go out alone. Always be with your friends, this killer doesn't take people from groups."

John

Mrs Hudson clutched to John's arm as he guided her through the cemetery. She held a bouquet of flowers in her hand that she carried loosely. John hadn't brought anything, he never did, he thought that Sherlock wouldn't care for flowers or any nonsense. But he never told Mrs Hudson this.

"It's going to rain soon…"Mrs Hudson broke the silence that had plagued the pair since they entered the taxi.

John mumbled an agreement without looking up at the sky. He slowed down as they began to near to the black headstone. John stopped a few feet short, but the lady carried on and placed the bouquet of flowers before the stone. She took away the old bunch that had begun to whither, and held them at her side. John slowly approached the stone and stood next to his landlady.

"He always did make such a mess," she sighed. "I won't get tired of opening the fridge and not finding any body parts in it" she joked. "And the noise! Gun shots at two o'clock in the morning, banging around endlessly at night; I would hardly sleep." John patted the woman's hand and dropped her arm. "I'll leave you have a moment."

The lady turned around and started her way back up towards the cemetery gates. This was their usual routine. John and Mrs Hudson would visit Sherlock. She would swap the flowers, complain about him shortly, and then leave so John could speak to him privately.

Once the old woman was out of ear shot, John coughed and looked up. "I miss you. I keep thinking about throwing your stuff away…. Everyone tells me to. But…I can't. Because I know you're alive. I know you're still alive, out there…somewhere. So, just….come home soon. Okay? Stop… this. And just come home… because I miss you."

**Thanks for reading. Please leave a review to let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade.

Lestrade crashed down into his desk chair and placed his steaming cup of coffee onto the desk. He leant back and picked up the case file that was already waiting for him. Donovan had obviously been in earlier this morning to get a head start on the case. _Maybe I should see what I can do for her…. She's been working hard lately,_ Lestrade thought.

As soon as the thought came into his mind, Donovan came into his office and sat down on one of the chairs. She nodded towards the file that Lestrade held in his hands. "What do you think?"

"Well I haven't had a look at it yet," Lestrade opened the file and skimmed over the details with a sigh. "There's been another one?"

Donovan nodded, "This one's different though." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "A young girl."

"Young? How young?"

"Eighteen."

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise, "Are we sure it's him?"

"Definitely. The same cause of death, the same basics, it's him alright. What I don't understand is why he's targeted someone so young. He usually kills people who are middle aged, nobodies. So far, all the victims have no family members and very few friends if any. So why does he all of a sudden take someone who's going to be missed?"

"He's escalating. Like you said he would. We need to step up now, before this gets out of hand."

* * *

Lestrade and Donovan strode down the street. Their feet hit the pavement to the same beat, accompanied by the symphony of traffic, and hail hitting the paving. The pair rounded the corner and stopped outside a small pub, the paint peeling off the walls and a sign swinging in the wind.

"Why are we here, sir?" Donovan attempted to shield herself using an umbrella against the lethal wind and rain.

"The second victim had a card in their possession, one for this pub. And the mother of the most recent victim said that she sometimes drank here with her friends. It's not much, but it is a connection. Now can we please go inside?"

Lestrade held the door open for Donovan to enter first, taking shelter from the rain. Inside was small and tattered, paint slowly peeling off the walls, chipped tables and chairs, dirty floors. This pub certainly wasn't popular, also evident by the empty chairs.

"I'm sorry mate, but we haven't opened yet!" a gravelly voice sounded from the left. A large man swaggered up to the officers and crossed his arms in front of them. "You'll have to come back later."

"Police." The pair flashed their badges in unison and smiled slightly at the man. "We need to talk," Lestrade finished.

The bartender raised his eyebrows, but gestured for them to take a seat at the bar. The man was bald and wore a stained white vest, he had tattoos spreading up his arm, and a permanent frown fixed to his large face. He picked up a point glass and started to clean it with a dirty cloth. "Clark. Can I help you?"

"Do you know a Jennifer Williams?" Donovan perched on the end of one of the bar stools and rested her hands against the counter, before thinking better of it and placing them in her lap.

"Jenny? Sure. Young red head? She comes in about twice a week. Drinking with her friends most of the time. Why?"

"Well, her body was discovered this morning at a cemetery not far from here. Do you have any idea why?"

"What? You think I did it?! Bloody hell, just because a guy has a criminal record, doesn't mean he goes about killing people!" the bartender snapped.

"No, we're not saying that you're connected. We just want to know if you have any idea as to why she would be there." Lestrade had elected to stand behind Donovan, his arms folded and staring levelly at the man.

* * *

John.

John stood outside of the bedroom door. His hand resting calmly on the handle, yet he didn't open it and enter, nor did he leave. The man stood sullenly, staring at the door. John hadn't been in Sherlock's bedroom since his death. And he wasn't planning on going in today, he was fine just standing there and staring.

His back as straight as the days when he stood on parade, his one arm hung tightly at his side, whilst his other in front. His face was closed off, a blank expression. It was only the tears in his eyes that showed any emotion. Yet there was no one with him to notice. The tears did not pour and spill down his cheeks, but swam in his vision.

John swallowed and inhaled deeply, he nodded to the door, and then spun around. Walking sternly back into the living room, his arms did not swing at his sides, but hung loose. The man sank into his chair and rested his head in his hands. The stubble that scratched him did not bother him, nor did his unwashed hair or bloodshot eyes.

Memories of that day had plagued the soldier's nights. During the day when he was conscious, he could often push aside the memories and the thoughts. It was night that John feared the most. There, he had no control over his mind. So that is when the memories of Sherlock haunted him most. Visions of his best friend falling, accompanied by his voice at the end of the phone, John dreaded the night where he always remembered.

The man was worn with extreme fatigue, his eyelids drooped slowly. He groaned into his hands and leant back in the chair. He felt helpless.

* * *

Lestrade.

Lestrade was beginning to grow frustrated; this was taking longer than he wanted. He was tired of the man rambling on and decided to end it now.

"What about Mark Peters?" Lestrade cut off the man. "You knew him too."

The bartender grunted in response. "Used to, he doesn't come round here anymore."

"That's because he's dead. Don't you read the papers?" Donovan allowed a hint of anger to creep into her voice. She too was beginning to grow weary of the conversation.

"Dead? No I don't read the papers, love. That explains it. What about him?"

"Did he ever talk to Jennifer? Ever see her? Did they know each other?" Donovan asked.

The man shook his head and wiped down the bar. "No. listen, I'm going to have to open soon. Are we done with this?"

Donovan opened her mouth to reply but Lestrade cut in front. "Yes, but we'll be back." He walked away and held the door open for Donovan, who shuffled through. "That was useless."

"I wasn't done, Sir." Donovan returned the umbrella back to her side. Over the time that they had been in the pub, the rain had been and gone. "What do you think?"

"I don't like him."

"I think we should take him in for more questions."

"You think he can be connected?" Lestrade asked.

"He's the best we have. And I didn't like him either. He dodged a lot of the questions we asked."

The DI nodded, "Yeah, okay. I'll get someone to go over and bring him in. Meanwhile, see if you can find any other connections to the pub. Maybe the other victims went there too? He may not have seen them but they may have gone in a few times."

Donovan nodded and got into the car. Lestrade was about to start the engine when he received a text. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. The detective read the text and inhaled sharply.

**It's not the bartender. Meet me behind the yard at eight. Tell no one. **

**-SH**


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade.

Lestrade jumped out of the car he just parked and spun around, peering into the shadows desperately. He then grunted and got back into his car, turning on the radio and sitting back. The man flicked open his phone and read the text again, before sighing nervously and returning it back to his pocket.

19:50.

Lestrade had returned to the station after visiting the bartender. He hadn't really had any time to think about the text, he was too preoccupied interviewing him again (to no success), visiting the latest crime scene, and taking care of other business. So when he finally finished at seven thirty, he drove to a pub nearby and sat down in the corner, finally having some time to think.

19:53.

The DI had already decided what he would do. He returned to the yard and would wait in his car. He will then wait to see who will show up, if anyone, and talk to them. The fatigued man had rationalised his thoughts, and came to the conclusion that it wasn't Sherlock. Some youth had probably got a hold of his number and decided to follow the man.

19:56.

It would be easy to pretend to be Sherlock. The man used to change his number so often, that it would be believable to receive a text from an unknown number claiming to be the sociopath. And ending the text with his initials….that was probably just a lucky guess.

19:59.

Still the DI hoped, only slightly, that the consultant-detective would show up. But it was impossible, Sherlock had jumped off the roof and he had died. Molly Hooper had done the autopsy herself! The man was definitely dead.

20:00.

Lestrade's phone binged, a text from the same number.

**Will you be getting out of the car? I'm by the fence. **

**-SH**

Lestrade narrowed his eyes doubtfully but obliged. He got out of the car and began to walk behind the rows of cars to the back, by the fence. Once the detective reached the fence he looked around, only to find no one in sight. He rolled his eyes and leant against the fence, he was beginning to lose what faint hope he once had.

"You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Lestrade froze. He turned to his left and squinted suspiciously. "Oh, you bastard." The man lunged forward and grabbed at the first thing he could, a Belstaff coat collar. He pulled hard, dragging the lanky man forward, and embraced him like a man.

Sherlock grunted in pain, wincing at the force Lestrade was holding him with. "Can you let go now?"

Lestrade released the man, yet still held him by his shoulders. "What the bloody hell is wrong with your face?"

Sherlock was sporting a large bruise that blackened his eye, an old cut lip, and mud-covered hair. The consulting detective brushed off his friend's concern, and his face grew serious. "Listen to me. John cannot know that I am here. Neither can anybody else. I am here solely for the purpose of the investigation, yet I will only be helping. I must not be seen by anyone, only you can know. I can't tell you why, but you have to do as I say. Once the murderer is caught, I will have to leave again."

Lestrade's face fell, "Why? Surely you can stay, and John. He needs to know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Did I not say how I cannot tell you. You just have to trust me, yes?"

* * *

John.

"Shit." John put down the razor and stilted his head, inspecting the cut. Only a small one, but the blood was dripping onto his dressing gown. John grabbed the towel on his right and dabbed at the wound, cursing himself for his own carelessness. The man had been thinking of other things, and not what his hands were doing.

He had decided last night that he would shave his face, that he would try and appear to be better, even though he wasn't.

A knock on the bathroom door, "John, I'm just putting the shopping on the table, okay?"

The man shook his head, "Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

Lately, the landlady had made it her duty to care for the crestfallen man. She had been buying him food (despite the fact that he wasn't eating), checking on him every day… The only thing she wouldn't do was clean the flat, John had told her sternly not to touch any of Sherlock's stuff.

* * *

Lestrade.

"But where will you stay?"

"I'm fine."

"Come on mate, at least let me put you up. It's… just me… so there's no need to worry about others knowing."

"I am perfectly fine. Everything has been arranged. I will be contacting you over the phone, in order to help with the case."

"But.. where are you staying?"

"I can't tell you."

"What will you eat?"

"Food slows me down."

Lestrade shook his head. He and Sherlock had been conversing for the past half hour. Sherlock had refused to tell his friend any more than he already had, which infuriated the DI. Much to Lestrade's dismay, Sherlock wouldn't stay with him, nor would he tell John about him.

"Sherlock…"

"I need to go." Sherlock cut in. "I will be in touch tomorrow. Go home, Lestrade."

**Only a short one sorry. Thanks for reading, please review if you liked it so far!**


End file.
